


nothing could ever change (how i feel)

by kinneyb



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:21:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26533543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinneyb/pseuds/kinneyb
Summary: Witchers earn extra mutations during the trials that are a long-kept secret. Jaskier learns of them.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 13
Kudos: 433





	nothing could ever change (how i feel)

**Author's Note:**

> written for one of my supporters - hope u enjoy!!
> 
> twitter: queermight / korrwrites  
> tumblr: korrmin

Geralt had the worst complications of all of them; he saw Eskel and Lambert, still young-faced, with ears peeking out of their dark mess of hair and tails that were easy enough to hide and felt overwhelming jealously. Witchers didn’t feel emotions, that was a common myth, but it was all wrong — they felt them, every single one, they just had to learn how to control and ignore them. Geralt was still struggling with that after he opened his eyes to his ears and tails — all expected. Just part of the life of a witcher.

But then he had stood up from the table and stumbled, barely catching himself. Something felt _wrong_.

When he lifted his gaze, too scared to look, Vesemir was watching him with a clenched jaw.

“Come,” he had said, briskly leading him out of the room. Geralt could barely follow; when he finally chanced a look down, his breath caught in his throat. The heels of his feet no longer touched the ground, his calves were leaner, thighs a little thicker. Each step felt unnatural and unsteady. He looked like—

Once inside Vesemir’s room, Geralt found his voice again: “I look like a _monster_.”

He had known, in a way, that was what they were doing to them. Monsters created to hunt other monsters were all they were, in the end, but this was _beyond_. He hadn’t been warned of this. The ears, the tails, he knew about those and he even saw Vesemir’s scars, sometimes, from when he had underwent the mutations and had his own cut off. At first he felt a burst of anger—had Vesemir _lied_ to them?—but Vesemir’s expression seemed sincere, like he was just as shocked as him.

“I’ve never seen this happen,” he confessed. He rarely admitted to lacking knowledge. “Sit, on the bed.”

Geralt stumbled over to the bed, feeling shame that he couldn’t even do that steadily. The ears and tails had never worried him much; after all, it was tradition to have them cut before you took to The Path. Vesemir had done it and many others before him.

But this wasn’t like that; he couldn’t just _cut off his legs._ And there was no going back.

Vesemir crouched in front of him, running his fingertips over his skin and assessing the damage. Now, sitting down and with a clearer mind (barely), Geralt could see that the changes didn’t end with just his feet; there was less of a curve between his knee and his calf, which — he tested the theory — made his leg a little harder to bend and likely, he knew, less flexible as well.

“Eskel and Lambert?” he asked, grateful that at least his voice was steady.

Vesemir moved his hands down to his feet. “Fine,” he answered tersely. Geralt was jealous, but grateful, to know they were okay.

“But I’m not,” he blurted.

Vesemir looked up. “You will be fine, boy,” he said, finally standing. “You may have some trouble, at first, but you have always been stubborn.”

“How?” he challenged, gesturing at his legs. “I can barely _walk_.”

Vesemir shook his head. “Like you trained before, you will train again.”

And that was how Geralt ended up staying behind, watching as Eskel and Lambert disappeared down the long winding path that led away from Kaer Morhen. He was _angry_. He needed to work on controlling that, Vesemir kept reminding him. Anger never benefited, just ruined.

He had at least been able to take the ceremony with them; removing his tail had been surprisingly painless while his ears had been _excruciating_.

“Remember,” Vesemir had said at the end of the ceremony. “No one knows of this,” he said, gesturing around at them. Geralt pointedly kept his eyes away from the bucket full of—well. “You must not tell a soul or risk destroying what little respect we have out there.”

Lambert had snorted. “Who needs respect from _humans?_ ”

But one stern look from Vesemir and he had quickly shut up.

Now Geralt had been left behind, like a failure. He started from scratch, training daily to learn how to fight again. He was able to jump higher, he realized, but it was hardly worth it. He wasn’t making any progress; he stumbled constantly, even when he knew he had the physics right. Every night he ended training with sore legs and less hope.

It was not long after the others had left that Vesemir led Geralt to the dining hall, a hand on his back. Geralt saw them immediately: a pair of boots on the long table, black and simple.

“I had them made for you,” he explained as he approached the table.

Geralt didn’t understand. “Boots?” he asked. Vesemir handed the boots to him.

“Try them on,” he said. Commanded, really.

Geralt knew better than to disobey. He sat on the bench and pulled the boots on. There were wedges that pressed down against the top of his feet. He didn’t fully understand why until he stood and realized his feet were level to the floor. His eyes snapped to Vesemir, who looked pleased.

“I had them designed to keep your feet level,” he explained. “Should help with balance.”

Geralt didn’t dare believe him yet. He took an experimental step and nearly laughed when he didn’t stagger even a little bit. Vesemir placed a heavy hand on his shoulder, squeezing.

“You should be ready by next spring to join Eskel and Lambert,” he said, and Geralt felt the relief like an arrow to the gut, releasing weeks of tension.

*

He should’ve expected this; the first few weeks after being gifted the boots, his performance was greatly improving, but at a cost. Every night, after long hours of training, he pulled the boots off with a wince. His feet were sore and raw from the now-unnatural angle of being flat and his legs ached with every move he made. He had found a solution, but no solution was easy.

And so he braved it, never even telling Vesemir.

A bit of pain was worth it, he told himself, every morning when he dressed and grabbed his swords.

*

Vesemir was right, like always. Geralt was ready to leave Kaer Morhen the following spring, back to top shape. His legs still gave him trouble, painful more days than not, but he had been taught to ignore pain just as he’d been taught to ignore emotions. Witchers had a job to do, a reason for existing. Geralt could power through a bit of pain.

“You will make us proud,” Vesemir said on the day of his departure.

Geralt stepped forward, ignoring the ache in his knees, to wrap him in his arms. Vesemir hugged back.

“I can only hope,” he replied as he pulled back.

*

Life out on the road was as expected in many ways: he was treated like a monster despite all the work he had put in to not _look_ like one, though he supposed there wasn’t much he could do about his eyes, an unnatural yellow that glowed in the dark with catlike pupils. Unfortunately any interference with his eyes could result in his sight being modified and he couldn’t risk that.

He slept in the woods most nights and he nearly had to beg for jobs at first. Slowly work picked up as he continued on, undeterred by the violent words thrown his way.

The pain in his legs didn’t lessen or worsen for a while, just a steady ache that came and went, mostly only returning after from a particularly hard fight or shortly before rain. Though as time continued, an unstoppable force, returning to Kaer Morhen and departing again, Geralt found that his legs started to hurt more and more.

_Ache_ , he corrected mentally, as he traveled the dirt path on the back of his steed. Not sharp pain, like the wound he’d gotten from the kikimora a few weeks ago, but an ache that flared up every night when he was readying for bed.

Sometimes he swore Roach could tell when he was having an especially bad day or night, nudging him with her head and snorting.

“It’d take a lot more than _this_ to stop me,” he assured her, and she snorted again before lowering her head. Geralt scratched behind one of her ears before returning to the fire; if he stumbled a bit, well, there was no one around to see. No one to know he had a weakness, or wasn’t the indestructible force of nature humans liked to think of him.

He sat heavily and cursed under his breath as he tugged his boots off. His knees cracked loudly as he shifted, seeking a comfort he could not find.

Finally he admitted defeat and fell back on his bedroll, closing his eyes.

*

In the morning his knees were stiff and his legs ached with each step he took toward the stream. The water, like always, was a comfort to his sore joints. He sat in the water for a long time, head leaned back, the sun warm on his face.

When he finally crawled out, clean and feeling a bit better, he dressed and returned to camp.

Roach was what he saw first, exactly where he left her, then he saw the person standing next to her. If he focused, he could smell him, because it was a man, he realized, as he drew closer. He didn’t have an ounce of fear in his body as he ran his hand over Roach’s neck.

His brown hair was neatly smoothed out of his face and his eyes were bright, blue as the sea.

Geralt reached for his sword, feeling satisfaction in the way the man startled, eyes snapping to him. Geralt was fast; in seconds, he had the man pushed him against a tree with the tip of his sword pressed against his neck.

“Who are you?” he demanded. “What were you doing to Roach?”

The man blinked owlishly at him. Even now he didn’t smell of fear. Was he hiding some silver underneath that gaudy doublet? “Roach?” he asked with a hint of amusement. “Your horse is named… _Roach?”_

Geralt narrowed his eyes. “That isn’t an answer,” he said, and the man sighed lightly.

“I promise I did not mean any harm to you or your horse,” he said. “I was traveling by, actually, when I saw her. I was afraid she’d been abandoned or something.”

Geralt nearly snorted. “What a lazy lie,” he said, adding a bit of pressure behind his sword. He saw the first prickle of blood on pale skin. That was when he noticed the man was carrying a lute. A bard, maybe, or at least posing as one. Not a bad idea, he supposed. Most people wouldn’t be threatened by a _bard_.

“Not a lie,” he squeaked, and Geralt listened to his heartbeat but it was perfectly steady.

Slowly he drew back, taking his sword with him. “What is a bard doing so far from any town or city?”

He smiled sheepishly, touching his neck with a wince. “Ouch, yes, well, you see, I was in a town. Uh, that way.” He pointed in a random direction. “But then I was caught with the mayor’s daughter and was subsequently ran out.” He reached around to pat the body of his lute. “Luckily I was able to grab her on the way but unfortunately I left most of my things.” He paused. “And all of my money.”

Geralt stared at him. “You were planning to steal from me?”

He threw his hands up. “I—no, no, that sounded—absolutely not, I mean, look at you—” He gestured at him wildly before freezing. “Wait, _look_ at you,” he breathed, eyes widening.

Geralt waited, unimpressed. He had heard it all; there was nothing he could say that he hadn’t heard before. He smiled brightly, and that was—admittedly a bit surprising. Most people didn’t _grin_ at him, not even after he saved them. Selfish bastards.

“You’re—I’ve heard stories of you; Geralt of Rivia.” His eyes sparkled with interest, not the usual disdain. “You’re even lovelier in person, I must admit, the _hair_ is especially—” He reached for the tips of his hair, and Geralt moved swiftly, grabbing his wrist. “Right,” he said, clearing his throat. “Sorry.” Geralt released his wrist and he smiled again, like his neck wasn’t still bleeding and his wrist wasn’t sure to be bruised by morning. “I just—you are hardly the monster they say you are.”

Geralt thought suddenly of losing his ears and tail, a memory he hadn’t thought of in a long time. And then he thought, bitterly, of how he couldn’t walk for too long without feeling it by nightfall. He barely realized he had growled, low, until the other man let out a laugh.

“Well, I should say you don’t _look_ like one,” he continued cheerily, “but your manners could use some work.”

Geralt frowned, feeling completely out of his element. “I don’t understand; you’re not scared.”

“Should I be?” he replied breezily, and Geralt just shook his head, taking a step back. The bard adjusted his doublet, tugging it down and smoothing out the wrinkles. “I should introduce myself, as soon you will hear my name shouted all over the Continent.” He thrust a hand out that Geralt pointedly did not take. He didn’t seem offended, just drew his hand back and smiled brightly. “I’m Jaskier. And you are?”

Geralt arched an eyebrow, lowering his sword completely. This man—Jaskier—was odd, certainly, but he hardly seemed like a threat. “You know who I am,” he said, and Jaskier rolled his eyes.

“I know _of_ you,” he said. “There’s a difference, I assure you.”

Geralt fought the instinctive twitch of his lips. He couldn’t remember the last time he had to struggle to hold back a smile. Jaskier was odd, _and_ a danger but in an entirely different way from his usual world of violence.

“You should go,” he said gruffly, turning away.

“Did you not hear my heart-wrenching story?” Jaskier said, stepping back into his line of sight. “I have no money, nowhere _to_ go. Can’t even afford an inn, and the woods can be so dangerous but I’m sure you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?”

It wasn’t spoken with condescension like he was so used to. It was a genuine question.

Geralt stared at him. “I’m not giving you money, bard,” he said, and Jaskier gasped, pressing a hand over his heart.

“I was implying no such thing,” he said breezily, “but instead the possibility of letting me travel with you for a bit, at least until we reach the next town.” He smiled brightly. Geralt narrowed his eyes.

“I prefer traveling alone,” he said blandly.

And he did, for many reasons. For his own safety; a travel companion would just be a liability, another thing to have to protect. Witchers weren’t known for it anyway; they were, as the rumors liked to say, selfish and heartless. Ironic, considering all the time he spent killing creatures for the benefit of others, but who was he to change centuries of beliefs?

Not to mention, Geralt had his own secret to protect. If word got out that he was unlike the others, well, that would be like putting a target on his back. People that hated his kind would target him, believing him to be the weakest link. They would be sorely mistake, of course, but he didn’t want the hassle.

On top of all that, it wasn’t just his secret to protect. Vesemir had made that perfectly clear from the start. Humans could not know about the other mutations. That was the way of things, and Geralt had no interest in rocking the boat if he didn’t have to.

“Yes, of course,” Jaskier was saying, snapping him back to reality. “But it would only be temporary.”

Geralt stared, silent. Any other human would’ve cowered under his gaze, dark and unblinking, but Jaskier just stared back with a sheepish smile.

“As soon as we reach the next town.” He could hardly believe the words coming out of his own mouth.

Jaskier brightened. “I swear on my life,” he said, giving a small—and rather unnecessary—bow that left Geralt feeling itchy all over.

*

They traveled most of the day, stopping only when he decided Roach needed a break. (Roach, not him, even if his legs detested the long ride.)

Jaskier was silent for the first hour or two of walking before pulling his lute around and strumming at the strings, humming lightly. Geralt opened his mouth to tell him to knock it off, as he should, but the words died in the back of his throat.

The music was oddly soothing. He would, of course, never dare admit that in so many words.

“You are nothing like the rumors,” he said finally, fingers stilling over the strings.

Geralt side-eyed him from on top of Roach. He wanted to push for more and yet he didn’t. There was no point in talking, or getting attached to the human. As soon as they reached the closest town, which—based on his calculations—was probably two days away, they would be parting ways and he would never see him again.

“You are actually quite pleasant company, for starters,” he continued. Geralt almost laughed at the sheer unexpected ridiculousness of the statement. He had been called many things, never pleasant.

“You are odd,” he said.

Jaskier grinned up at him. “I’ve been called worse,” he assured him with a wink, and Geralt forced himself to look away.

*

Geralt hadn’t considered that he was the only one with a bedroll. “Here,” he said, tossing his bedroll at the bard. Jaskier scrambled to catch it.

“No, really, you shouldn’t,” he was saying as Geralt turned away and stoked the fire.

Geralt turned back to him once he was done with a long-winded speech about hospitality and Geralt’s unexpected generousness that ended with:

“Those rumors really are unfounded, I have to say.”

“Sleep,” he said simply, and Jaskier frowned for a moment, clutching the bedroll to his chest, before finally nodding. He spread out the bedroll as Geralt sighed and sat down next to the fire. He had put off hunting for supper, given they had rode most of the day and his feet were begging to be free of his boots. Jaskier had been pleased enough with the stale bread and cheese.

It was only once Jaskier had slipped inside his bedroll that he realized he couldn’t risk taking off his boots. Surely his breeches would cover most of him but it wasn’t worth the risk. He didn’t much care about humans viewing him as even more of a monster, but he couldn’t betray the others and—his eyes flickered to the bard.

He was the first human to not smell of fear, even if just a tinge, around him. He didn’t want to ruin that.

Geralt leaned against the closest tree, closing his eyes, his swords by his side.

*

It was his first time sleeping in his boots and he paid for it in the morning; he awoke before Jaskier and went to stand up when suddenly his knees buckled and he fell to the ground with a groan. Jaskier sat up instantly, eyes wide.

“What—” One look at Geralt and he was struggling out of the bedroll, crawling over to him. “Are you—?”

Geralt growled, twisting his head from side to side as he tried to push the pain out of his mind. He could do that. He was built for that. Lifting his head, he glared at Jaskier. “I’m fine,” he said, and Jaskier nodded, biting his bottom lip.

“You don’t look fine,” he said after a long pause because he was a fucking idiot, apparently.

Geralt stood up, leaning against the tree. “I _said_ I was fine,” he snapped, a little louder. “Go.” When Jaskier lingered, a look of concern on his delicate features, anger bloomed in his chest. “Go, gather wood for the fire.”

Finally he turned and walked off. Geralt sighed, shoulders slumping, as he let his head thunk back against the tree. His legs ached and his chest felt tight and uncomfortable and he needed to get _rid of him._

_*_

Geralt had found that massaging his legs relieved some of the pain. With Jaskier glued to his side, he couldn’t do that and instead found himself in an even worse mood than usual as they continued through the woods, birds chirping loudly from every direction.

Every chirp was like a needle being shoved through his eardrum, too much and too loud.

Jaskier kept glancing at him with concern and that didn’t help; made his skin feel too tight.

Eventually he couldn’t take it any longer and turned to look at the bard, who startled under his gaze. Huh, finally he acted like he had a reason to be scared. Good. “I made a mistake,” he said gruffly, pulling Roach to a stop. Roach, who had grown annoyingly fond of the man over such a short time, who usually hated others.

Jaskier stared at him, wide-eyed and—for once—blessedly silent.

“I don’t wish to continue this; the town is close enough and these woods are calm. Go on your own.”

He had expected Jaskier’s look of disbelief and—fuck, hurt—but he hadn’t expected the pang of guilt in his own chest, as if he wasn’t doing the bard a favor. Geralt stared back, holding his own.

“You can’t seriously think I’m just going to leave, especially after what happened this morning,” Jaskier said finally, shoulders pushed back and a determined frown on his face.

Geralt clutched the reins in his hands so hard his knuckles ached and turned snow-white. “Don’t be stupid,” he said. “I can take care of myself. If anything, you put both of us at risk. I can’t protect you and myself.”

Jaskier took a quick step back. “You never should’ve agreed if that were the case,” he said bitterly. “Perhaps the rumors about you do hold some truth,” he continued, and Geralt wasn’t sure if he could handle this even a second longer; his legs and feet begged for release, his chest was tight in an unfamiliar way, the birds seemed to be growing louder and louder.

“Just go, Jaskier,” he said through clenched teeth.

He _hmph_ ed as he turned away, storming off with his lute thumping against his back. Geralt watched him disappear from sight and reminded himself this was for the best. Once he was certain it was safe, he climbed off Roach and immediately fell to his knees with a hiss of pain. Roach turned quickly, nudging him with her head.

He swatted gently and blindly at her. “I’m—I’m fine,” he gasped, swallowing thickly.

Shifting around, he sat back and yanked his boots off; the relief was almost too much. Roach snorted from next to him. He closed his eyes.

“Just—give me a minute,” he said, grateful that she was quiet after that.

The pain slowly subsided, though there was no getting rid of it entirely, not after abusing his feet for so long. Finally he felt well enough to stand up, leaning on Roach for support. “Imagine if they saw me like this,” he muttered, letting out a humorless laugh.

_Imagine if he saw me like this,_ his brain supplied.

Geralt frowned, shaking his head. He had done the right thing; Jaskier would be fine. He’d reach the town, find a pretty willing bed partner—as he was ought to do, based on all his endless ramblings—and forget all about him. As was intended. Witchers and bards lived different lives and always would.

Roach neighed quietly, turning her head. She almost looked sad. He understood all too well.

*

When Geralt reached the town, days later, just to make sure Jaskier was likely to have moved on, he was greeted in the oddest of ways. The bartender at the local tavern was friendly, offering him a free ale for his services.

The innkeeper, who was an elderly woman, offered him a free room as well, smiling sweetly at him.

Geralt felt like he was being tricked, somehow. When he was locked safely in his room, he sat on the bed and glared at the door, waiting for the inevitable, but no attack ever came. The inn was silent and calm. “What the fuck,” he grumbled as he undressed for the night. His boots came off last, like usual. Sighing, he flopped back on the bed.

He supposed there was no harm in being welcomed warmly. It was just—odd, a little unsettling.

He slept like a log; a bed was always better on his aching legs than the forest floor. In the morning, he walked back down to the tavern and was greeted bright by the bartender again.

The first words out of the bartender’s mouth sent him reeling: “Your bard said—”

Geralt’s head snapped up. “My _what?”_ he asked in disbelief.

“Your bard—Jaskier,” the bartender specified breezily, looking only mildly confused. “He was just here; he said you’d likely be following behind by a few days. He played that song of his for us; the locals loved it.”

Geralt narrowed his eyes. “Song?” he asked slowly, and the bartender grinned, showing off crooked teeth.

“Still stuck in my head.” He turned away to grab the pitcher of ale, humming something under his breath that sounded _suspiciously_ like, “Toss a Coin to Your Witcher.”

Geralt stood up and left the tavern. Jaskier, the _bastard_. He hadn’t asked for his help and he certainly didn’t _need_ it. Retrieving Roach from the stables, he smoothly mounted her and took off to the next town. He had a suspicion he would find the bard there.

*

He didn’t even get as far as the next town before he found Jaskier; he was riding down the dirt path when he saw him just a few feet ahead, strumming his lute and humming the same wretched tune the bartender had.

Geralt stopped Roach suddenly, jumping off. His knees protested and he ignored them, storming ahead. Jaskier turned at the last second. “Geralt,” he beamed brightly. “I knew I’d see you again—”

He grabbed the collar of his shirt; he wasn’t wearing one of his flashy doublets, likely because of the heat. “Why would you do that?” he asked.

Jaskier blinked, the grin slipping from his face. “Isn’t it obvious?” he asked. “Your reputation was in the dumps and I decided that just wouldn’t do, especially after getting to know you.”

Geralt nearly laughed. “Our last conversation wasn’t exactly _pleasant_.”

“Oh, I know,” he replied, undeterred, “but I couldn’t exactly blame you for being the way you are, given how the world has treated you for so long. I don’t hold grudges.” He paused. “Usually. Anyway, you won’t believe the way they ate it up—soon you will be known across the entire Continent and for all the _right_ reasons.”

Geralt released his collar, taking a step back. “You don’t know me,” he said gruffly. “You just met me.”

“True,” Jaskier said easily, “but I would like to.” A beat. “Get to know you better,” he elaborated.

Geralt couldn’t risk it, he knew that. Vesemir would tell him the same thing; companions are a liability, _especially_ ones of the human variety. _They are weak and selfish,_ he always used to say. _You can’t hold it against them, it is just the way they are, but you can be smart enough to keep yourself—and the rest of us—safe._

And Jaskier wasn’t just any human, but a _bard_. If he discovered the truth, he would certainly write a ballad about it, consequences be damned.

“Why?” he asked finally. “Looking to write more songs?”

Jaskier smiled slightly. “Would that be so bad?” he asked. “We could both benefit.”

It _could_ be, especially if he found the wrong things to write about, and yet Geralt found himself distracted by his eyes, so blue and open and _trusting_. He was young, he realized, for the first time. Couldn’t be older than eighteen and yet he stood in front of Geralt without an ounce of fear.

“You’re an idiot,” he said eventually.

Jaskier brightened, outshining the sun. Geralt was screwed.

*

Surprisingly traveling with Jaskier, long-term, was not all that difficult, especially once they bought him his own bedroll and so Geralt could risk taking his boots off at night. Jaskier seemed to learn his boundaries, as well, no longer saying much when Geralt would occasionally curse late at night or early in the morning, fighting the urge to fall to his knees.

Jaskier wrote many songs on their travels, all about him and his adventures. Geralt pretended not to like them.

As the weeks went on, turning to months, Geralt found himself actually expecting Jaskier to always be there, now, when he returned to camp. It was an odd sight when he returned from gathering firewood and he wasn’t _there_.

Concern was like a sharp dagger in his chest, twisting.

He dropped the firewood and took off; his legs protested, after a long day of traveling, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Jaskier was nowhere to be seen. Finally he caught the lingering scent of the bard and turned toward it, running faster.

Geralt pushed through the trees and came out on the other side. The relief was instantaneous.

Jaskier stood in a stream, naked, skin glistening. Geralt found himself selfishly looking for a flaw, like an instinct, but his skin was smooth, dusting of dark hair covering his chest and legs.

“You found me,” Jaskier said with a toothy grin.

Geralt growled as he stalked forward. “I thought you were—” he started, snapping his mouth shut. “Don’t do that.”

Jaskier blinked once. “Sorry,” he said, and he actually sounded sincere. “Well, you’re here now, and you know I’m safe, so why don’t you join me?”

And—well, he wanted to accept the invitation, selfishly, but he knew he couldn’t, not even with Jaskier staring at him so pleadingly. Like he wanted this. Wanted _more_ , his brain corrected, because he wasn’t an idiot. He had been picking up on the signs.

If humans knew, they would go back to thinking he was a monster, ruining all of Jaskier’s hard work.

_Jaskier_ would think he was a monster.

“Hurry up,” he said gruffly, forcing himself to turn away. He could _smell_ Jaskier’s disappointment, sour and potent. He pretended not to feel a damned thing as he walked back, and he pretended not to feel Roach’s look of disappointment.

*

“I think I should perhaps apologize,” Jaskier said a few days later. They were sitting around the fire, eating. Geralt lifted his head, staring at him from across the flickering flames. “I have never been known for being… _discreet_ , and I’m afraid I might’ve made you feel uncomfortable.”

Geralt swallowed suddenly, choking as the dry meat went down the back of his throat. “What?”

Jaskier smiled, looking both mildly amused and almost guilty. “I do not think inviting you to _bathe_ with me was exactly discreet, Geralt,” he said, eyes flickering off to the side. “I made a promise to respect your boundaries, well, a private promise and I believe I might’ve overstepped.”

“You didn’t,” he said, too fast.

Jaskier blinked, nodding slowly. “Well, you obviously did not wish to join me and I will respect that in the future.”

Geralt wanted to tell him the truth—“I did wish to join you; it’s just I _can’t_ ”—but he didn’t. Instead he took the cowardly way out by just nodding his head, unable to meet Jaskier’s eyes. He could smell a hint of sadness in the air. His least favorite smell after fear.

*

They continued on like that, as friends. Geralt should’ve been grateful; it was his first friend, there by choice and nothing else. Jaskier wrote many songs about him, their shared travels, that went on to be hits, played by every bard across the Continent. Geralt was out of his element, now, surrounded by cheers and warm words.

His legs still hurt him, as expected, but now he found that the pain of seeing Jaskier with another was worse. In every town, he parted ways with Geralt, disappearing with some man or woman, before returning hours later. The scent of sex always clung to his skin and Geralt forced himself to ignore it.

Jobs were becoming a welcomed distraction; a way to clear his mind. He didn’t need to take them as often he used to, as Jaskier’s performances were keeping their pockets full, but he did anyway.

Normally Jaskier stayed behind, at camp or the inn, when he went out for a job. Tonight appeared no different as he left Jaskier behind with Roach, swords on his back.

What was supposed to be an easy job ended up with him on his back, a snarling werewolf pinning him to the ground and his swords too far to reach. Geralt had always known death was around the corner but he would prefer not dying to a _werewolf_.

He kicked suddenly, not even noticing the pain that shot through his leg. The werewolf yelped, jumping back. It was all the time he needed to stretch and grab one of his swords; when the werewolf charged him again, he buried the silver through the beast’s chest, right through the heart. Only when the werewolf slumped, lifeless, did he remove his sword and fall back himself, groaning loudly as the leg he had dumbly used to kick the beast throbbed with pain.

It had been worth it, he supposed, as he was alive but he wasn’t so sure he could get back to camp in this condition. Jaskier would worry.

Geralt heard rustling from nearby bushes and prepared for his luck; another werewolf, maybe, or just a wolf. He turned his head just as Jaskier appeared through the trees, looking disheveled. “Oh, Geralt,” were the first words out of his mouth as he approached and gently crouched next to him. “Thank the Gods.”

He frowned. “You—what are you doing here?” he asked, and Jaskier smiled a little.

“Not listening to you, obviously,” he replied instantly, looking him over. “Can you walk?” Jaskier leaned over him. “You’re not bleeding, at least.”

Geralt swallowed. “I can’t,” he admitted. “I—” He paused at Jaskier’s expectant look. He looked so open and honest; he would never betray him or think differently of him. He knew that, or he believed it, but he still couldn’t find the words. “My leg,” he said simply, gruffly.

Jaskier didn’t ask any questions (maybe he underestimated him), just swung Geralt’s arm over his shoulders and stood up. Geralt leaned heavily against him, surprised by how sturdy Jaskier was despite his slim frame, easily able to hold his weight.

They walked back to camp, where Roach let out a loud neigh at their arrival. Jaskier smiled at her.

“I told you I’d bring him back,” he said, leading them over to a tree and letting Geralt stiffly sit with a barely-noticeable wince. Jaskier wouldn’t have noticed it if he hadn’t been with him for long, now an expert at reading his expressions.

Geralt let out a groan as his head thumped back against the tree. Jaskier crouched next to him.

“What can I do?” he asked. Geralt turned his head to look at him. He was a good man, even with his endless flaws. Even if he could have him, _keep_ him, it would be unfair to Jaskier. He deserved better.

Geralt licked his lips, cracked and dry. “My bag,” he said.

Jaskier grabbed his bag for him and returned; Geralt dug out a vial and drank it, sighing as the elixir curbed the pain. He knew the pain would subside more if he could get his boots off.

“Jaskier,” he said, lifting his gaze to him. “Go.”

He stared back, stubborn as always. “I am not _leaving_ you like this, Geralt.”

“You have to,” he replied, nearly growling. “Just go, take Roach. You can return later. Just— _go_.”

Jaskier frowned, quickly standing. Geralt could smell it on him, not disappointment, but _anger_. “You are—fuck you, Geralt,” he said. “I don’t understand what you want and I’m done trying.” He turned and walked over, snatching his bag up. He never treated his lute with so much carelessness, letting it smack heavily against his back as he tugged his bag on.

He left without taking Roach, and so Geralt was forced to face the reality that he probably wasn’t coming back. He should’ve been relieved. He wasn’t.

Shaking his head, he ignored the burning deep behind his eyes and yanked off his boots.

His legs were bruised; the bruises would be gone by morning but he was not so naive to think the pain would be as well. He reached back inside his bag and pulled out a vial, rubbing it between his hands before starting to massage his leg. Every touch was like fire, relief and pain at the same time. Roach neighed.

“I know,” he snapped. “I know.”

She neighed again, and he growled, head snapping up to glare at her, but he froze when he saw Jaskier next to her.

“I—I shouldn’t have left like that,” he was saying, eyes a little wide.

Geralt was tense all over, which did little to help his aching legs. This was it; the moment Jaskier realized he was as much of a monster as the rumors said. Well, the _old_ rumors, not the stuff whispered about him now, like how he was far sweeter than he looked. Another aftermath of Jaskier’s many songs about him.

Vesemir would eventually hear about it, once the talk spanned far enough. He would’ve let him down, a fear he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying for so long.

Since the start, since before his mother had abandoned him, he’d been a mistake.

Geralt barely even realized he had started to breath a little too fast until suddenly Jaskier at his side, a gentle hand on his arm. “Focus on me,” he was saying. “Come on, Geralt, look at me and—yes, just like that. Deep breaths.”

He took a gulp of air, focused on the warm blue of Jaskier’s eyes.

“Geralt,” he said slowly. “Are you okay?”

He nodded curtly. “You—you should leave,” he said. He should have forced him away from the start, stuck to it, but he had been too _weak_ , had found himself enjoying Jaskier’s company a little too much. Now he would pay for it. Not just him, but all of them.

“You don’t get to tell me what to do,” Jaskier replied breezily as he dropped his bag and reached for the half-empty vial.

Geralt watched with wide eyes as Jaskier poured some of the ointment in the palm of his hand, rubbing them together, before reaching for his leg. He stiffened, grabbing Jaskier’s hand. “What are you doing?”

“You were massaging it, right?” he asked. “I’m assuming this stuff soothes the pain.”

Geralt stared dumbly at him. Jaskier gently pried his hand free of his grasp.

“May I?” he asked this time.

Geralt didn’t know what to say; he had imagined this happening so many times and in all of his imaginings Jaskier would be disgusted, as he should be, as any rational human _would_ be, but here he was, in reality, staring at him and waiting for permission. Finally he nodded, still at a loss for words.

The first touch of Jaskier’s hands was a shock to his system. He had never shown his legs to anyone, and most certainly had never let them be _touched_. Jaskier’s fingertips were rough against his skin, from years of playing, he assumed, but his touch was soft and experienced.

For a long while they were silent; Geralt simply watching as Jaskier massaged his legs.

Admittedly the relief was unlike what he could do for himself, with Jaskier able to reach angles and places he couldn’t.

“How long have you been dealing with this?” Jaskier asked finally, looking up. Geralt blinked at him. “The pain,” he elaborated. “Why didn’t you say anything? I could’ve been helping earlier,” he added with a frown. He almost sounded _hurt_.

Geralt shrugged stiffly. “It was a part of the trials, to make me like I am. There are mutations. Natural ones. We rid ourselves of them, when possible. I had… extra complications; Vesemir—” Jaskier already knew who he was, based on earlier conversations “—always did say I was different from the others, that I was more resilience. We never expected this. There was nothing to be done.”

He prepared for more questions, humans and their deadly curiosity, but Jaskier simply nodded, sitting back. “How does that feel?”

The pain had subsided greatly. For the first time in a while Geralt was certain he would be able to sleep through the night. “Good,” he said. “Better.”

Jaskier smiled at him, bright and true. He was a good man, better than most, even with his endless flaws. Geralt had underestimated him for too long.

“You can’t tell,” he said suddenly, his chest flaring with anxiety again—when was the last time he had felt so anxious? Long ago. Possibly the day he had opened his eyes and stumbled. “If humans knew, they would—”

Shun us more than they already do, he supposed, but that seemed almost impossible. Even with the help from Jaskier’s songs, there were still many who viewed him as a monster, no better than the beasts he hunted. They didn’t seem to care that he was only hunting those beasts for _them_. For their safety.

Jaskier touched his arm, a feather-light press that made his mouth snap shut. “They would use that knowledge to justify their hatred,” he supplied gently. “I know, Geralt. Your secret is safe with me.”

Geralt nodded curtly. “I trust you,” he said, surprised by how much he meant it. “So.” He swallowed around the lump in his throat. “You can go, if you want.”

“You realize you’re an idiot, right?” he replied breezily, a slight twist to his mouth that meant he was amused and exasperated all at once. “I’m not leaving you.” Jaskier closed the vial and placed it aside before settling down next to Geralt with a sigh. “You are stuck with me, like it or not.”

Geralt side-eyed him. “You don’t have to take pity on me,” he said, nearly a growl. The last thing he wanted was pity, especially from Jaskier.

Jaskier smiled slyly. “I know _you_ know I have never stuck with you out of pity.” He looked ahead. “But for far more _selfish_ reasons.”

He remembered, suddenly, Jaskier in the stream, beautiful and asking for him to join.

“You want me,” he said, like he couldn’t quite believe it. “Even now.”

Jaskier shrugged. “Perhaps,” he admitted, “but I will respect if you don’t want the same thing. Doesn’t really matter. I’m still staying, so. Good luck.”

Geralt _hmm_ ed, leaning back against the tree. “I don’t _not_ want the same thing,” he said after a long pause, finally admitting it. “It was just—I was—” _Scared_ , he thought. Any human would laugh in his face at the mere suggestion of _him_ being scared, but it was the truth. He had been terrified. Was still terrified.

“Shh,” he heard. “We have all the time in the world. No need to rush."

And he supposed they did. 

*

Jaskier grinned widely. "Ears and a tail?" he repeated. 

He ignored the weight in his chest, clearing his throat. It was a few days later, and Jaskier had been especially helpful, even starting the fire they were currently sitting around. "Yes," he answered. "They are removed before we leave."

Jaskier nodded, looking thoughtful. "Kind of makes sense," he replied. "School of the Wolf, right?"

Geralt had never thought of that, somehow. He had never actually heard Vesemir mention other witchers, from other schools, and if they went through the same mutations. "I suppose," he agreed with the start of a small smile. 

"Too bad I never got to see it." Jaskier wiggled closer, smiling slyly. "I bet you were _adorable_."

Geralt tensed briefly before forcing himself to relax again, welcoming the warm heat of Jaskier as he leaned against him. "I wasn't," he said tersely. "I looked like. Well. A monster. No better than the beasts I hunt."

"Your self-hatred is tiring, Geralt," he replied, soft but firm, reaching up to gently pat his cheek. "I would've adored you just the same."

Geralt couldn't quite make himself believe it, but he wanted to. Looking at Jaskier, he desperately wanted to believe it. "Thank you, Jaskier," he said finally. 

Jaskier blinked once, and smiled almost shyly. It was a new look for him, and Geralt liked it. "Don't mention it," he said breezily, looking away. "What are friends for?"

Friends was one way of putting it, he supposed, but it wasn't quite accurate.

"Friends, hmm?" he prompted with that same small smile, lifting an eyebrow. Jaskier side-eyed him with the start of a flush high on his cheeks. He looked ridiculously good. Geralt ignored the familiar burn of desire in the pit of his stomach. For now, at least. "I didn't think most friends cared to see the other naked."

Jaskier seemed slightly surprised by his bluntness, letting out a strangled laugh. "Geralt, you are the worst," he said, even as he grinned cheekily. "Okay, yes, well." Jaskier paused, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth, eyes dark with thought. Geralt waited. "Friends with benefits?" he suggested, looking almost rueful before reaching for one of his hands. "Or..."

"More," Geralt finished confidently. He wanted so badly, and for once he could have it if only he wasn't so cowardly. 

Jaskier squeezed his hand. "More," he agreed like he had never considered less. 


End file.
